


Here I am, Tied and Bound

by gonta



Series: Smile, You're on Camera! [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonta/pseuds/gonta
Summary: [MAJOR NDRV3 SPOILERS]Hoshi's tired. Just so tired.





	

**Author's Note:**

> AGAIN, THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE NDRV3 ENDGAME. DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE SPOILED.
> 
> more pregame stuff! my [twitter](https://twitter.com/gontabugmail) followers are ruthless enablers. I hope u enjoy ur suffering. im the hell ruler of shit country and this is a beautiful gift for my piss peasants
> 
> I'm so fucking weak for pregame shit holy fuck

Everyone cares too much, and that’s just the problem.

It’s early in the morning when he wakes up, slowly blinking back sleep and rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. The boy can never really afford to be tired - that isn’t an opinion, that is the reality of the fate that he has created for himself. Such is life at this point - an endless cycle of nothing, for a self-imposed good reason. 

Putting on his school uniform, he pulls its russet tie around his neck and tightens it - though he hesitates just before it can broach the collar of his white dress shirt. For a moment, he considers yanking it so tightly that it cuts off his circulation, blocking the path of his throat like a crashed eighteen-wheeler blocks a highway. His fingers itch at the fantasy, the sick idealization of death. 

But the sounds of life, of gentle sleep, from the other rooms in the tiny apartment cause him to withdraw from that train of thought. He rubs his temples with a beleaguered sigh, and tightens the tie to its normal position. Not enough to choke his short, fragile neck, but tight enough to serve as a reminder. 

About to leave the house, he grabs his backpack from near the door. He takes a moment to gaze loosely at the pile of smaller backpacks that also lie in the area, along with an array of childrens’ shoes. His parents’ are always neatly put away, but his siblings have never adopted the habit. 

He slings his bag over his shoulder, and lets the door slam shut behind him as he walks out into the mild Osakan air. The thought from earlier still plays on the edge of his mind, but he waves it away.

Maybe someday. But for now, there’s too much stopping him. 

 

Work starts early - before school, even. A quick glance at the brightly-lit screen of his smartphone tells him that, his freakishly huge eyes squinting to adjust to it. Sometimes, he wishes to run away, straight out of Osaka and into somewhere else. But this is the fate that he’s resigned himself to. 

His parents can barely scrape enough together to support their whole family unit - themselves, two sons, three daughters. Too many people who care about each other too much. It’s clear that they don’t want any of them knowing about their poverty. But he - the oldest - knows. It’s impossible to not, and it’s strange how none of his siblings have found it out by now. Not through his parents’ hushed conversations, or through any of their other penny-pinching mannerisms.

He was 11 when he first decided to take things into his own hands - it had started out as small things, doing what he could to make a quick buck. Pulling weeds in his neighbor’s yards, walking dogs (though he prefers cats), other menial tasks. The neighbors acknowledged him as being a “good kid”, and it initially made him smile as he pocketed the small wads of cash he was given. His parents were proud when he presented it to them, but even as a younger child he could see the vague melancholy in their eyes, the sweeping way in which they quickly scanned his disfigured form, the scrapes on his dirty knees. The feeling it gave him was only about 40% happiness - the other 60% was a nagging sense of regret and a sensation he couldn’t name.

It felt like television static. 

Still, he decided he would do more. As the years went on, it became less for his parents and more for his family unit as a whole. He loathed the endless toiling, and for such a reason he did not want any of his siblings to go through the same thing.

His siblings, who despite being younger than him, are all taller.

 

The routine has changed over the years, but for now it’s somewhat simple - a shift working the counter at a local coffee shop in the morning, immediately followed by school. Then, some retail work, and bussing tables at a diner until after the sun dips below the horizon and the streetlamps flicker into existence. Homework sometimes keeps him up until deep into the morning, then the cycle repeats. Sound and fury, a story told by an idiot. 

On this particular morning, he stops on his walk to the shop to look up at a billboard. Though until about a week ago it advertised some brand of sneaker, lately it’s been replaced by something else entirely. A cartoon image of a girl with peach-colored pigtails tied back with bear hair clips, making a peace sign at a person who only she could see. Bright pink text stretched across the ad.

_ DanganRonpa season 52, airing on Wednesdays at 8 on DespairNet! Signups for season 53 are open! Call (XXX)-XXX-XXXX for more information! _

He’s seen the show a few times, but lately hasn’t had time to keep up with it. Still, he hears about the survivors, who allegedly get enough money to last them several lifetimes over. 

He stares at the billboard for a second, his eyelids drooping in exhaustion until he realizes that he’s going to be late and quickly moves on. 

 

Most of his coworkers in his various part-time jobs are faceless at best, but there’s this one girl at the coffee shop who’s always been alright to him. She nods at him when he comes in, brushing her short hair out of her face in a silent greeting. They don’t talk too much, but there’s a certain sense of understanding between them. Both of them overworked kids. 

As he gets behind the counter, she fixes her hairband and begins futzing with the cash register. 

“Did you see last night’s episode of  _ DanganRonpa _ ?” She suddenly asks, causing him to raise a nonexistent eyebrow. They haven’t ever really talked before, so the question is strange. 

He scratches the back of his neck, letting out a baritone sigh. “I didn’t have time,” he mutters. “Why, what happened?”

The silver-haired girl purses her lips. “The Super High School Level Toxicologist got executed last night - it’s a shame, really. She was one of my favorites.”

“Mhmm…” a customer comes up to the counter, and he’s occupied for a few minutes by the order. When he’s done, though, he turns back to her. “You thinkin’ of signing up for next season?” 

She clutches one arm behind her back. “Maybe. I don’t know yet. I mean… would you want to?”

He takes a moment to consider it. Signing up would mean money - his family might never have to work again. And it also meant that he could maybe even finally fulfill his desire to die.

But that’s just selfish.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” is all he says in response, and the girl gives him a quick glance before returning to her work. 

The sun has risen by the time his shift ends, and he grabs his backpack before heading out the door. His colleague piped up after him. 

“I'll see you later, Hoshi-kun.” 

Whether he wants to be there toiling away or not, he knows that it's true. 

“Okay. Bye, Toujou.” 

 

School is fine. He's an okay student - he straggles along the bottom of honor roll, usually making B’s. He's got a few friends, though he never invites any of them over to his house and is usually too busy to accept their requests to hang out. 

Sometimes, when he walks to work after school, he sees the tennis club practicing. He almost wishes that he could have signed up, but his aching muscles tell him otherwise. 

In his rare free time, he throws a worn-out ball against the back side of his house and wishes that his life were not as pathetic as it were. Maybe then, he'd actually be playing. 

On that day, he passes the billboard again. 

But this time, he takes out his phone and saves the number to his contacts list. 

Maybe. 

 

It's in the back of his mind for a while. Still, he trudges through the endless continuation of work, family, and suicidal ideation that is his life. He simply drifts - considering the idea, but never acting upon it. 

It's a regular check-up that drives the last nail into the coffin. 

With a concerned glance, the doctor shoos his mother out of the room and squats down to talk to him. His fists clench - why do people always have to do that? 

In hushed tones, he tells him that he should not be working his body as hard as he is. Achondroplasia is no joke, he tells him, as if he's been treating it like one. Laughable. 

He wants to scream. 

Hoshi doesn't work that night, and he goes through the motions of his siblings fawning over him. When everyone’s busy, though, he quickly runs out to the library and borrows a book on serial killers. 

After running through the book, he dials the number on his phone and asks the toneless lady on the other end if he can schedule an audition. 

She gives him information, and then the line goes dead. 

He turns the book over in his elfin hands a few times, before cracking open a pen and beginning to write. 

 

The man sitting across from him during the interview (who he assumes is a producer) seems amused as he shifts through the papers that Hoshi’s handed him. “You've certainly planned this out,” he tells him. “So far, we've only had one other auditionee with ideas like this. Any particular reason?” 

He scratches behind his ear, trying to ignore the strange feeling of hesitation that's wormed its way into his mind. “Well, it’s a win-win.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I want to die.” The man doesn't react at that proclamation. He's probably heard it all before. “Not only that, but I need money. My family’s on skid row here. I figure… whether I live or die, I'll benefit.” 

Hoshi kicks his legs as he sits on the too-tall chair, looking down at the beige carpet as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Something makes him want to go home. 

The man merely chuckles. “That's very honorable of you, then. Let's continue.”

He disagrees with both of those sentiments. 

 

Hoshi gets the call a few weeks later, and it's almost immediately followed by a bunch of strange men in suits pulling up beside him in a car with mirrored windows and pulling him in. One of them grips his arm, and his hand encompasses the whole thing. 

He's left to stew in his own juices in the back seat as he stares out the window. He considers texting his parents to tell them what's going on, but decides against it. Knowing him, he'll probably end up letting it slip that he's been fantasizing about getting run over by a train for the past week. 

Something about the back of the car makes him deeply tired. Maybe he'll close his eyes for a little bit, just for a little whi

 

An aggressive banging noise from his left snaps him out of his sleepy haze, and it takes a moment for him to realize he's no longer in the car. Instead, he's in what seems to be a box with slits on the door. 

A locker?

Suddenly, the banging stops. There's a sudden  _ wumph _ noise, followed by a grunt. Hesitantly, he pushes on the front of the locker and steps out. Hoshi’s greeted by the girl from the coffee shop, sprawled out on the floor in a distinctly undignified fashion. Struggling to get up, she turns to him and her eyes widen. “Hoshi-kun?”

“Toujou,” is all he can say in response. “So you signed up.”

“Same to you,” she mutters. 

There's an awkward silence between them. 

 

After that, everything is a blur. 

 

An aggressive banging noise snaps Ryoma Hoshi, expert tennis player and death row convict, out of his sleepy haze, and it takes a moment for him to realize he's no longer in the - where was he before this? Whatever. Instead, he's in what seems to be a box with slits on the door. 

A locker?

With a start, he realizes that the banging is his own fists pounding on the door. Before he can stop, though, it flies open and he's sent flying into the floor. 

He lays there for a few seconds, letting the curious nature of the incident wash over him, before hearing another sound. He looks up to see two perfectly polished black shoes on the ground in front of him. The shoes are on the feet of a silver-haired girl in a perfectly pressed maid’s uniform. She gives him an unreadable look before pressing her gloved hands together. “Greetings,” she states, “My name is Kirumi Toujou. If you ever need anything of me, please let me know.”

He scratches his forehead and takes the time to adjust his hat. “Ryoma Hoshi,” he mutters in response, sensing something strange. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I don't believe so.” 

Still, he can't shake the strange feeling of deja vu he has as time goes by. 

 

He can't shake it until it blows up in his face, and by then it's far too late. Toujou’s forcing his head under the water, his hands shackled together, his mind running at a thousand miles a minute. It's as if one neuron in his brain was wired with explosives, and they've just gone off and blown everything else away. Water purifies, and getting shoved into the icy water is akin to being born again. 

Dying and fantasizing about dying are not the same experience. 

Memories flood into his conscious as he struggles in Toujou’s firm grip, eyes blurring from the water. 

_ I have to go back I can't go like this are they even okay have they fallen into debt without me where are they we worked together Toujou how did you get into this you're going to end up like that toxicologist girl you liked and I don't want to die I don't want to die I DONT WANT TO D _

He lets out a scream under the water, releasing years and years of stress and replacing them with a veritable deluge gushing into his lungs. 

His last thoughts before the darkness takes him are of his family. 

Are they watching?

How much do they care?

He’ll never know, and that's just the problem. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I always love getting comments, so please consider leaving one!
> 
> By the way, this fic's title is from the song "Let's Go!" by Stuck in the Sound. I thought it was fitting for Hoshi's struggle here.


End file.
